


Illusionary

by CuriousRebel



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Hurt!Spock, Hurt/Comfort, Illusions, Jim is a Worried Boyfriend, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture, but it's not graphic, extremely brief and extremely vague mention of non-con, kind of, there's no actual non-con in this, worried!Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24635254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousRebel/pseuds/CuriousRebel
Summary: Spock's disappearance from the ship is a complete mystery and, after three weeks of fruitless searching, Jim is losing hope. Battling against the Admiralty, cult-ish aliens, and his First Officer's mind, will Jim be able to bring Spock safely home, and into his arms?
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 131





	Illusionary

**Author's Note:**

> This took me nearly FIVE MONTHS to write. It wasn't supposed to be this long but it just kept running away from me 😭. But I am super proud of it, and I feel like it's pretty good! I'm literally writing this at 2AM. Why do I do this to myself?

Jim Kirk is on the edge of explosion. Or implosion, perhaps. He is slipping, he knows he is - he has an infuriating itch in his palms, the urge to lash out at the next person who slights him. And a deep, intimate ache at his core to collapse in the face of the next little difficulty.

Currently the captain is pacing the length of his desk without pause, both hands flexing impatiently at his sides. The gaze of Dr McCoy follows him with growing concern as Jim pivots on his heel for the fifth time. His eyes dart momentarily to the pile of discarded PADDs sitting on his desk, each of them filled with reports that do not aid them. His jaw tenses so hard that for a moment McCoy worries he can hear it creaking.

“There must be something. Something we’re missing, Bones, something we’ve overlooked.” He insists, his tone gruff and demanding. The doctor knows that Jim doesn’t really expect him to come up with all the answers; he’s simply a sounding board. A replacement, because Jim’s usual command confidant is not here.

He shakes his head, as much to answer Jim as to dislodge his train of thought. They are at a loss, and Bones cannot remember ever feeling so despondent. “I just don’t know, Jim. Three weeks, and we’ve got nothing.”

Jim lets out a shaky breath of air that could just as much be a sob as it could be a sigh, and McCoy winces at his unsatisfactory answer. _If only Spock was here._ The doctor frowns to himself - _if Spock was here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place._

Jim kicks his pacing up a notch. “Engineering can find no sign of tampering or intrusion on any part of the ship; Uhura has received no messages by means of ransom; Chekov can find no trace of an ion trail that might suggest the presence of another ship; and you and I both know that there was no deviation of normal behaviour, so how can the disappearance be explained? How can he have just-”

Bones looks again at his friend, who has ceased wearing a hole in the carpet to lift a hand to rub at his brow. He bites the inside of his cheek at his friend’s naked distress. Jim has not allowed himself to speak of Spock directly since the day he was discovered missing, as though he believes maintaining a clinical view of the situation will help in the recovery of his First Officer.

McCoy knows, really, that this simple vocal quirk began as a means to battle emotionalism in the crucial time directly following the disappearance. But after three weeks of endless searching and with no leads to follow, he is beginning to worry that Jim is using it to fend off the grief of reality.

His own grief weighs upon his heart - hindering him in a way Spock would criticise him ruthlessly for. What he wouldn’t give to hear one of those monotonous lectures now. Their jobs are not without danger, McCoy of all people knows this, and yet he has always assumed that the Enterprise’s Science Officer would go down in a blaze of logical glory - defending those who can’t defend themselves, martyring himself for the good of the crew or taking a hit to save a single life, forever holding other’s lives above his own.

Jim sits down abruptly, as though his pacing has finally exhausted him, and scrubs his hands over his face. McCoy doesn’t blame him for being tired; he can’t remember the last time he saw him eat a full meal, and he can’t even begin to imagine the last time he got a proper night’s rest. McCoy knows he isn’t the only one who usually keeps Jim’s health in check.

The captain digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until he can see stars, the discomfort a welcome distraction. He relieves his lungs with a harsh sigh, “What now?”

“The only thing we can do is keep looking, Jim. Something’s gotta turn up eventually.”

The captain shakes his head mournfully. “We can’t.”

Bones frowns at his defeated tone, “Why not?”

Jim curls a hand around his mouth, obscuring the grim line of his lips as a long, slow breath shakes his shoulders. The doctor leans forward, trying to catch his friend’s eye. “What is it, Jim? What aren’t you tellin’ me?”

Jim stares out of the observation window into the open expanse of space, and when he speaks his voice is flat and unemotional, “I got the message this morning. Starfleet Command has ordered for the ongoing search for Commander Spock to be terminated, and offer their sincerest condolences to the captain, officers and crew of the _Enterprise_ for their loss.”

The doctor is baffled by his tone. Jim Kirk is not one to give up easily. “So? Tell them they can go to hell-”

Jim turns back to him, eyes cold. “I’ve been warned that the Admiralty’s patience is growing thin. We have taken two more weeks than what protocol allows for already; any more and they’ll be in serious danger of being accused of favouritism.”

McCoy is silent, and the implications of this sink sorely into his already aching chest. His voice is low when he speaks again, “So that’s it?”

“Yes.” Jim replies, tone still scarily without inflection, as though he is numb to the whole conversation. “Spock is to be declared Missing In Space. He is either dead or he’s going to die because we’re going to abandon him, and it’s likely we’ll never know which.”

McCoy swallows against a wave of nausea. Quiet, engulfing grief pulses over both of them, and for a moment they can do nothing but breathe against the pain of it. They don’t acknowledge it out loud, they don’t say how irreversibly their lives will change. How can they? If they said it, who would temper them? Who would bring them back from the brink of torrential emotion? Their counterweight is gone, lost to them in the infinite expanse of space-

The intercom’s whistle jars them back into reality. Jim’s face morphs lightning-quick into that of a starship captain as he crosses the room, and McCoy wonders just how much Jim has been hiding behind that mask. “Kirk here.”

“Lieutenant Uhura, sir. An incoming transmission from Starfleet Command.”

* * *

Jim’s stomach churns as he steps onto his beloved bridge. The Alpha crew have stretched themselves thin in their determination to aid the search, and watching them unravel has not been pleasant for the captain. His crew is special to him, especially his senior officers on which he so relies.

The atmosphere of the room is worn and worried, more so than when Kirk was here even just an hour ago. Sulu’s fingers work the helm with practiced ease, but his back is slumped, his eyes creased in forced concentration. Uhura checks her frequencies over and over, staring at her translator keypad in a way that suggests she is not fully aware of what she is listening to. Scotty’s mouth is pursed, his brow scrunched, completely enveloped in confirming and re-confirming his team’s findings regarding any intrusions onto the ship.

These past few weeks, the captain has not failed to turn to the science station as he would on any normal day, eyes scanning for Spock’s familiar form. He curses his muscle memory as his heart once again drops. Chekov stands at the scanner, pretending not to notice his captain’s gaze. The ensign is almost skittish, flitting between fiddling with the scanner and chattering lowly with the officer at his usual post at the navigation console.

Uhura looks up first, and a tired smile pulls at her lips when she meets eyes with him. She speaks in a disconcerted tone, “It’s Admiral Yoomin, sir. He requested that you speak to him right away.”

An answering grin - faded from its usual splendor - passes over Jim’s face, and he replies conspiratorially. “Did he? Well, I suppose we’d best not keep the good Admiral waiting, then. Patch him through, Lieutenant.”

This display of charmingly toeing the line of insubordination seems to mollify the crew a little; Sulu and Chekov exchange pleased smiles across the bridge. The Communications Officer grins more convincingly this time, “Aye, sir.”

Jim sinks into the familiarity of the captain’s chair as the Admiral’s transmission appears on the screen. Yoomin has never commanded Kirk’s respect - his promotion was offered to him after a particularly ugly mission by way of lulling him out of protesting the unnecessary danger his shipmates had been put in, and he had taken it, leaving his crew without a foot to stand on. His drawn and tense manner is particularly unwelcome. Any remnant of bravado slips from Kirk’s face.

“Admiral.” He acknowledges. The roughness of his voice seems to bring Yoomin pain, and a flash of bitter satisfaction strikes through Kirk’s stomach. He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth to avoid saying anything he might regret.

“Captain Kirk. Starfleet has not yet received confirmation of your course change to Starbase.”

All eyes are instantly on him, burning silent questions into his skin. His gaze flickers around the bridge, meeting the eyes of his senior officers. He watches each of them deflate in turn. Guilt crawls over him, the memories of their fevered efforts to recover Spock playing back at him.

“That’s because this ship has yet to change her course, Admiral.” He says levelly, hoping desperately that his appearance does not point to emotional compromise.

Yoomin cocks his head. “Kirk, you have your orders. Please do not force me to certify you unfit for command.”

The thinly-veiled threat leaves little room for negotiation, but Kirk keeps his head, “With all due respect, Admiral-”

“Kirk.” The word is oddly warm and personal, and Jim’s gaze snaps to his superior officer. Yoomin’s eyes soften. “When I captained the _Victory_ , I lost my first officer two months into our first mission. I understand how you feel.”

His voice is without malice or condescension, but Jim’s blood boils all the same. _Two months?_ They’re asking him to give up a hell of a lot more than _two months_. This is four years of the greatest command team Starfleet has ever seen. This is the greatest discovery he has ever made, no matter what the historians herald him for, that _yes_ , a half-human half-Vulcan is capable of feeling, of acting out of compassion even when it is illogical. This is the friendship of a lifetime, forged in battle and tempered by the everyday runnings of a starship. This is the closest Jim Kirk has ever come to feeling complete. This is _Spock._

“Captain?” Sulu says, requesting orders despite having heard them straight from the Admiral’s mouth. It is this small act of loyalty that knocks Jim out of his incredulous train of thought. Yes, this is Spock, but his crew are also in need of him, and Spock would never expect him to breach his duty as Captain of the _Enterprise_.

“Kirk.” Yoomin repeats, gently enough. But it is a warning, Jim cannot mistake that. His morality screams at him that it is inherently wrong to leave someone behind, no matter who it is, while his sense of duty argues that it would be even more wrong to ignore orders and put his entire senior crew at risk of decommission. That last selfish part of him weeps that he will never forgive himself if he leaves his most precious friend to an unknown fate.

He stands from the captain’s chair. “Helm, lay in a course for Starbase 8.”

“Jim!” McCoy exclaims, contrasting against the stunned silence of the rest of the crew. He can’t bring himself to look at any of them, and his earlier bitter satisfaction is reflected back at him from Yoomin’s expression, biting into the soft emotions welling in his chest.

“Thank you, Captain. We await your arrival. Yoomin out.”

Uhura banishes the Admiral’s image from the screen with an unnecessarily forceful push of a button, grief tightly concealed on her face. Sulu plots the course in stony silence, his hands skimming the controls. Chekov slumps back from the scanner, his ceaseless activity draining from him in a single movement.

“Jim.” Bones says again, this time with more restraint, as his best friend steps towards the turbolift. The other man shakes his head in denial - denial of what, McCoy isn’t sure. But he is sure of this - the powerful, swaggering Captain James T. Kirk is no longer present on the bridge, and in his place Jim Kirk has been cut to the bone.

* * *

Jim near-stumbles from the lift as the doors open, his decision hanging heavily over him. He nods weakly to several passing crewmen as the sound of Sulu announcing the course change over the intercom registers faintly. A pang in his chest - how can he have ordered that?

All these weeks, these countless days and endless nights, the hope has buoyed him, saving him from sinking under the heavy, unforgiving waves of grief. If he could just keep going, ask Uhura to check this frequency, get Chekov to monitor that wavelength, kept speculating with Bones, he could float on the current of action. He could hide from this suffocating feeling currently engulfing his chest. But now he has met with the unrelenting wave of Starfleet Command, and it has wiped him out, punctured his buoy, and left him to drown.

His intention was to retreat to his own room, but he slows prematurely outside of Spock’s cabin, suddenly seized with the desire to enter. He deliberates for a moment, glad of the empty hallway. Would it be wrong of him to enter into this room he has so avoided? To revel in the familiarity of a man he has likely just condemned to death?

Carefully, he presses his hand to the scanner and it identifies him with a soft buzz against his palm, allowing him entry. He can barely remember a time before blanket access to his Science Officer’s quarters was permitted to him. Can barely remember what his life was like before their ever-fulfilling companionship. He dreads to think what it will be like to get used to it again.

He steps slowly, mournfully, into the familiar surroundings. The air is heavy, almost stale, any hint of the Vulcan stolen away by the ventilation system. He can hardly bear the emptiness, the open, obvious abandonment of the room. The ghost of Spock’s presence seems to hover over his shoulder and he can almost call up the sound of a deep, rumbling voice comforting him through his decision to redirect.

He circles the room slowly, his head numb and his feet heavy. Each corner of the room harbours memories and affections - the dimly lit meditation alcove from which he has been lectured with no small amusement on the merits of centring oneself; the neatly pressed bed on which he has found solace during the rare nights that his dreams have haunted him; the meticulously ordered wardrobe who’s contents he is so familiar with draped and wrapped and worn by that enticing figure; the neatly ordered desk over which he has received endless council and admiration and support.

The neatly ordered desk, where a game of chess stands frozen in progress. Spock’s black has the upper hand, as he so often did. Jim dully remembers the certainty he had felt in his abilities to pull the victory out from under him. Remembers the way those dear eyes had laughed and how his friend’s commentary had teased, and he aches to recall it.

How can it be that this game of chess - so routine, so regular - will be their last? Forever unfinished, ever checkmated by the loss of his opponent. The loss of his dearest friend.

He thinks again of his conversation with Bones. His heart shrieks bloody murder at him, constricting tightly against this betrayal, at the ludicrous idea that Spock could ever be left behind while there is still blood in his veins. The admiralty will never agree with him; to them every crew member, every officer, every soul, no matter how dearly cherished, is expendable.

Spock always spoke so highly of the soul, the _katra_ , the essence that makes every being unique. Jim knew that if the roles were reversed, Spock would tear himself, along with any opponent, to shreds in order to preserve his captain’s life. This mission, these past few years spent together, and never once has Spock given up on him. And now he is going to turn his back on his best friend with no confirmation of his fate, one way or another, simply because he has been ordered to.

Jim’s gut twists. Is this what being a starship captain is? Destroying himself with grief in the course of fulfilling his orders? All his life, Jim has reached for the stars, hoping, wishing, searching. No one ever told him he might find this - find _Spock_ \- just for it all to be torn away again.

He turns his head from the aborted game with some difficulty, and his eyes fall again on Spock’s wardrobe. Spock’s absence on the ship had been realised after he failed to report for Alpha shift and Jim wonders, with an odd detachment, what Spock was wearing at the time of his disappearance. The majority of his memories of Spock are accompanied by the familiar science blue pullover, but his lamenting heart pulls at quieter, private moments that feature the soft weighted pull of Vulcan robes, measured and precise to conform to his First’s body.

He crosses the room, unthinking, and palms the wardrobe open. Following the pattern of his memories, most of the space is filled with regulation pants and undershirts, and the Commander-ranked pullovers. As First Officer, Spock’s tunics should have been Command gold, but the Vulcan had been oddly persistent and eventually Jim had ordered for the correct braids to be sewn into blues instead.

He remembers the satisfied little nod Spock had given when he finally caved, the gentle, grateful glimmer in his eyes that reached out to thank Jim for something the Vulcan could not vocalise.

“Oh, Spock.” He whispers now.

He remembers what Spock had said. “Thank you, Captain, an eminently logical decision. I believe my staff would be somewhat… _uncomfortable_ if my uniform were to advertise me as a member of Command rather than one of their own.”

And he remembers the flash of realisation that had bent his heart in a soulful wish to offer solace and reperation - Spock wished to eliminate any unnecessary factors that might alienate him from those he worked closely with. On Vulcan, Jim knew, Spock had been ostracised for being too human, and now on a ship full of humans he was crucified for being too Vulcan. Was it any wonder he wished to exercise control over the things that could be changed with ease?

The formality of Vulcan speech was, despite his claims otherwise, somewhat diluted with Spock. His words were ever-professional, but his tone often gave way to his exasperation, curiosity, sarcasm, anger, even fondness. Jim adopts that same emotive formality now.

“Oh, Spock, I beg forgiveness.”

Carefully, conscious of the intimacy of his actions, Jim releases one of the tunics from its hanger and cradles it to his chest. Emotion bubbles in his throat as that familiar texture shifts under his fingers, and he crushes the fabric against his mouth to muffle the distressed noise that escapes him. Once he is certain he can breathe again without sobbing, he brushes the shirt against the sensitive skin of his lips, using them to caress the material in the same soft manner he has always imagined for Spock’s skin.

The memory of Spock’s inherent warmth floods him, and for a moment he fools himself that he can feel the solidity of muscles beneath his hands, filling the uniform with all of that restrained Vulcan power. With every touch he and Spock have shared, every clasp of the shoulder, every guiding hand on an elbow, every press against the naked skin of an open wound, Jim has likened Spock to a furnace - stern and unwavering on the outside, but sheltering a great flame within.

He exhales wetly, pressing ever closer to that imagined presence by sliding the shirt over his cheek, as his imagination turns dark, supplying an image of that fire dying out, of the furnace growing cold and empty. The idea of that beloved heartbeat slowing beneath his fingertips…

“Captain Kirk, report to the bridge!”

The pull back to reality is startling, jolting him from his despair, but he moves quickly, registering the urgency in Uhura’s voice. With Spock’s shirt still clutched in his spare hand, Jim presses the intercom button. “Kirk here.”

“An incoming transmission, sir, source unknown - but they claim to hold Commander Spock!”

* * *

The turbolift doors can hardly open fast enough as Jim tears onto the bridge, heart in his throat. Again the entire crew turns to him, their eyes sparkling with renewed hope. Jim tries to quell the responding warmth that rises from his stomach, knowing he can’t afford to get his hopes up now. He stops at communications. “Lieutenant, report.”

Uhura, unoffended by the bark in his tone, removes her earpiece as she turns to face him. “Transmission came in three minutes ago, sir. They introduced themselves as the High Council of the planet Tallus. They claimed that their planet is some sort of haven, though the universal translator was having difficulty conveying their exact meaning.”

Kirk combs over this explanation, filing the information away with a note to exercise caution. Any misunderstandings due to lack of translation are always a possibility but this situation raises a red flag. He searches Uhura’s gaze again, “What claims did they make about Spock?”

She shakes her head apologetically, uncertainty creeping into her voice, “Not much, sir - they simply maintain that they have a Vulcan Commander within their custody.”

Jim’s mind races away from him, providing a surge of emotional turmoil. After all this - the agonising, the aching - could the answer to his prayers really just offer itself up on a platter? Why now? Why after all these weeks would they only just be contacted?

But a _Vulcan Commander_. S’chn T’gai Spock - the _only_ Vulcan in Starfleet. It hits him that there is no other possibility; Spock is _alive_. In his mind, the furnace’s flame roars to life once more, kindled by this new information.

Uhura sees the light flicker back to life in his eyes as a battering, dizzying, delighted wave of relief washes over him, and an answering grin spreads across her features. “Your orders, Captain?”

“Yes, my orders.” Jim falters. Starfleet Command have made it clear that they have been pushed to the edge of their patience. His prioritisation of the search for Spock has obviously been the subject of much debate by the Admiralty, and he’s not sure what it would mean for his career should this turn out to be a deadend.

But he thinks again of Spock, and knows that his captaincy is nothing when compared with his need to ensure the safety of his friend. He turns to the centre console, his mind made up. “Helm, have you taken the new course heading?”

Sulu, obviously privy to the situation, turns with a slight grin, “Course heading is as set by Starfleet Command, sir.” He pauses to give Jim a significant look, “Though the transmission coordinates would only be a slight deviation, and of course I would never disobey a direct command from my captain.”

Doctor McCoy steps up from beside the captain’s chair to stand at Jim’s shoulder, arms folded with an air of nonchalance. “You know, Jim, it is my professional opinion that, should this search go unfinished, both the emotional and psychological wellbeing of this crew could be seriously jeopardized.”

Jim takes this information in along with Bones’ sly grin, and turns soft, grateful eyes over the bridge, allowing his crew - and himself - this moment of hopeful cunning. He smiles for what feels like the first time in weeks and, with new strength in his voice, orders, “Helm, set a new course for the transmission coordinates.”

* * *

To say Jim is angry when they beam down is an understatement. The soft, lulling hope that guided them to this planet has well and truly worn off, and McCoy can feel the unrest peeling off of him in waves. The doctor worries for a moment about the captain’s abilities to remain level-headed and diplomatic, should those skills be needed, while they hash out exactly what occurred surrounding their friend’s disappearance.

Despite the urgency that had infected them all upon their discovery of Spock’s location, Jim refused to use the preset coordinates sent by the Tallusions. The captain knew all too well the kind of trap that could be set for them, and had pushed his personal desperation to find Spock as quickly as possible aside in order to maximise the safety of his crew. He had smiled sadly when he looked to the doctor and saw consternation visible in his manner. _“He’s been gone for three weeks, Bones, I doubt the five minutes it will take us to walk there will be of much consequence either way.”_

Jim’s tread is scuffling and heavy against the uneven ground, and McCoy chances a glimpse at his friend. That coldly determined scowl has fixed itself back upon his face, and his jaw is set so tightly McCoy wonders how it doesn’t hurt. He can sympathise with the captain’s anger, despite his wishes to uncover the facts before unleashing fury or blame on anyone.

The doctor is acutely aware of the uncomfortable silence of the security ensigns now trailing them. He can’t say that he makes better company than the stewing captain; a savage well has opened within his chest, and he knows that every time he speaks it is with unnecessary bite. He and Spock have butted heads from the moment they met, but he respects and admires the Vulcan more than he has ever been willing to say. He realises now, with regret, that he might not have demonstrated this clearly enough to Spock over the years.

Neither Spock nor McCoy are men predisposed to admitting affection to one so openly challenging of them, but it’s undeniable that a friendship has grown between them over the years. A friendship that bolsters them both in its own strange ways.

McCoy is almost flustered to admit it even to himself, but Jim and Spock are his best friends, his family - tied to him in a way almost no one else ever has been. No matter how high they raise his blood pressure, no matter how much they piss him off and no matter how bitterly they argue, he would never hesitate to place his very life into their hands, despite his bluster to suggest otherwise.

The planet’s surface is quiet around them, eerily so, amplifying their hesitancy to venture further and stoking their trepidation as to what they may find once they reach their destination. Three weeks and no ransom notice - McCoy, as CMO on the _Enterprise_ , knows all too well how low their chances of finding Spock unharmed are. He shivers away from the images his mind conjures.

He and Jim crest a hill together, and McCoy glances back at the red-shirted ensigns a few metres further down the path. Chekov and Uhura both petitioned to be included in the landing party, but Jim had refused them both, citing the ship’s need for them as the reason. Jim hadn’t needed to spell out the real reason to McCoy; if Spock was compromised either emotionally or physically, if not both, then they two are the only people he could bear to be witness to it - and even then he will be mortified beyond words.

They pause for a moment, both of them surveying the still, quiet settlement now in view at the base of the hill. There is no movement, no hostility - in fact, the settlement appears to be barely equipped to care for itself, never mind kidnap a high-profile Starfleet officer from the Federation’s flagship. But it wouldn’t be the first time that looks have deceived them.

“Bones…”

Again quiet settles over them, because what can they say? Either they go down there and their best friend is salvageable, or they go down there and he’s… not.

The ensigns catch up, and they trudge on.

* * *

The settlement is… disturbing. Encompassingly silent. Discomfitingly still. Completely desolate. Lacking life. _Empty_. The high rise residences loom over them as they travel down what appears to be the main road, and though they have not yet seen anyone, Jim cannot shake the feeling of being watched. Spied on and assessed. Judged. His stomach churns at the hostility the empty environment exudes. _If Spock really is here…_ He viciously squashes the rest of that thought. He can’t bear to think what this world’s countenance might say of its inhabitants and what, in turn, it might mean for his First.

The walk takes slightly longer than predicted and they don’t reach their intended coordinates for another ten minutes. The structure indicated by their tricorders is a building of almost religious stature, with spires reaching high into the misty sky. The intricately paved forecourt is as deserted as all the others before it, and the grandiose doors are shut fast. Jim raises a questioning eyebrow at McCoy, and in reply the doctor lifts his tricorder to scan the area.

“I’m picking up several life signs inside, Jim.” He says after a moment, not taking his eyes from the readings.

“Are any of them Vulcan?” The captain asks, and the hesitance in his voice cuts right through the doctor’s chest. All these weeks, and he can still see the hope flaring within his friend, torturing him with the possibilities.

He shakes his head regretfully, “No, Captain.”

The pinched expression that passes over Kirk’s face is overtaken by the sound of the doors swinging open. The security ensigns draw their phasers defensively, and the captain raises a fist to halt them. Jim and McCoy share one last look before three humanoids step through the doorway and into the weak sunlight.

They are almost imperceptibly human. With ranging skin tones similar to those of Terra and the same number of limbs and extremities, the only thing that sets them apart is the identical shock of blue hair adorning each of their heads. They wear identical robes of white linen that sweep down the stairs as they descend to meet the officers, the only notable accessory being a purple scarf draped over the neck of the centre alien.

Said alien’s expression opens into what could almost qualify as euphoria upon seeing them. He reaches his arms out as if to hug all four of them at once as he comes down the remaining steps, and exclaims, “Friends! You honour us by taking your freedom walk upon our soil.”

“Who are you?” Kirk asks, his tone carefully neutral despite his personal feelings. “What do you mean by our... _freedom walk?_ ”

“Forgive me.” The alien folds his arms back into his sleeves, but his unnervingly wide smile remains. “I am Tyreel, Head of the Tallusion High Council. I am overjoyed to inform you that you have been released from your servitude. Your Commander has been rendered harmless, and his telepathy can no longer dictate you.”

Jim’s expression tightens, and he takes a heavy step toward the brazenly hospitable delegation. Clearly they do not realise that they have made enemies by kidnapping Spock - nor do they seem to find themselves in error. The captain has dealt with xenophobes in relation to his First before, but the situation has never been so out of his control. Usually there is something he can do to protect Spock - whether diplomacy or threat or merely his own authority - but he knows that, in this case, the time for shielding the Vulcan has passed him by, and the only thing he can hope for now is to get Spock out of here and back into an environment of tolerance and understanding, where he can look after his friend.

“Where is my Commander?” The demand is low and growling, and the younger of the security guards takes a startled step back from the captain. McCoy winces internally - he knows that voice. Anybody who messes with Spock is immediately on Kirk’s radar, and for a moment he almost feels sorry for these poor bastards.

Tyreel, clearly still oblivious to the antagonism of the officers, brandishes an admonishing finger at Kirk, tutting good-naturedly. “Now, now, I will have no more of this submission; he is your Commander no more - you are free!”

McCoy isn’t sure if this alien is a few sandwiches short of a picnic or just plain stupid, but either way he seems to miss the dangerous flash in Kirk’s eyes. The councillor makes a sweeping motion, looking to the rest of the party. “Come, we have prepared a celebration.”

Jim finally loses his temper and snags the alien’s wrist as he turns to lead them away, tugging him back to face them with unshaking force. His voice is still quietly furious when he speaks, “Now listen here, we don’t want your celebration and we don’t want your _freedom_ , your group has committed a felony in the eyes of the Federation. You have abducted and held a citizen of a peaceful civilization, and a decorated Starfleet officer at that, and now you claim to have harmed him to the point of hindering his telepathy?”

Tyreel is evidently startled, his eyes widening so madly that for a moment McCoy wonders if they’ll pop right out of his head. The alien presses a placating hand to Kirk’s wrist. “Please, I do not understand, are you not relieved to be free of his control? He refused to cooperate and as such we had to pierce through in order to gather information-”

“ _Pierce through?_ ” McCoy cuts in, his voice sharp and challenging. “And what in blazes does that mean?”

Jim’s face washes over with renewed terror, and he takes a fistful of Tyreel’s robe, jerking forward so that their faces are mere inches apart. Through gritted teeth, he seethes, “What have you done to Spock?”

Tyreel looks downright terrified at this point. He stutters,” Please, friends, I do not understand your anger-”

“Three weeks ago my Commander, my _friend_ disappeared and here you claim to have been torturing him all this time and you don’t understand _why I’m angry?_ ” Jim barks.

Tyreel suddenly exchanges bemused glances with his fellow Tallusions, and then carefully extracts himself from Jim’s raging grasp. “Your Commander...is not hostile?”

An anguished fondness twists Kirk’s expression, and his voice softens painfully. “Spock is the noblest person I’ve ever met in my entire life. He would never hurt anyone for his own gain. He’s the finest officer any Captain could ask for.”

“You are his Captain? You mean to say that he is inferior to you?”

“He’s my closest subordinate.” Jim corrects with a twinge of annoyance. McCoy notes the captain’s hands flexing at his sides, and he knows that Jim is itching to shake the answers from these infuriating aliens.

The Tallusions begin to jitter amongst themselves disconcertingly, and one of the others speaks searchingly, almost desperately, “But we have been unable to contact you. I am sure- The telepath’s shielding-”

“Does not stretch to blocking communications. His shielding is used only for protection against outside forces.” Kirk interrupts, his voice edging dangerously back into cold fury. People are always bound to misunderstand things that are unfamiliar to them - as the captain of a starship, he knows this - but the idea that they would hurt someone, hurt Spock, because of a misconception is like a weight on his stomach.

The aliens’ chattering is twice as fervent this time, each of them seemingly deeply concerned about this new information. Jim finds himself tapping the flat of his palm against his thigh as they convene, and his feet itch to simply barge past them and find Spock himself. Tyreel turns back to them just as Jim’s patience is wearing too thin, and his pallor makes Jim’s throat tighten with trepidation. The councillor's tone is beseechingly apologetic as he says, “Forgive us, friends, but I fear a great misunderstanding has taken place.”

“I’ll say.” McCoy bites from behind Jim’s shoulder.

“What misunderstanding?” Jim demands.

“Please, friends-” Tyreel’s voice is wheedling and pathetic, and Jim’s nerves begin to boil again. Why can’t they just tell him _where Spock is?_ The councillor continues his bumbling dietribe by saying, “Understand that our species has a negative past involving telepaths, and they are a natural enemy to our people. We pride ourselves upon our psi-null utopia, and have dedicated our lives to cleansing our galaxy from telepathically-assisted tyrants. We have heard of your Commander’s strength and his telepathic range from a number of sources, and we assumed he needed to be eradicated. We see now that perhaps we were in error.”

This explanation does nothing for the captain’s disposition. Three weeks is a long time to hold someone deemed a threat in custody, and if all that they say is true, if their aversion to telepathy is really so great, he dares not imagine how Spock has been treated.

“Bring my Commander here to me. Now.” Jim’s tone brooks no room for argument, and Tyreel motions to the other two aliens, who bob their heads in acquiesce before fleeing into the building. Jim watches them go before turning all of his roiling anger back onto the man before him. His teeth chatter with the heat of his words as he seethes, “You cannot begin to know the price you’ll pay for this. Not only have you committed an act of war against the Federation, you have harmed one of the most well-respected officers in this entire galaxy. But _nothing_ Starfleet might do to you will even begin to compare to what I’ll give you for hurting my best friend-”

“Jim! Jim, easy, _easy!_ ” Kirk blinks through his haze of anger to find McCoy standing between him and Tyreel, gripping his arms firmly to hold him away from the cowering alien. Bones leans in closer when he finds himself back within the captain’s range of attention, voice low and soothing. “Come on, Jim, Spock’ll be here any minute now and this is the last thing he’s going to need.”

The mention of Spock licks softly at his anger, abatting and soothing it like water over an open wound. Knowing that Spock will need him to be calm and collected touches a softness deep within him, and Jim consciously relaxes his stance. Apparently this is exactly the effect the doctor was aiming for, because he pats Jim’s arm and murmurs, “Attaboy, Captain, nice and easy.”

Bones turns to continue speaking with Tyreel while Jim focuses intently on breathing deeply and slowing the hammering of his heart in his chest. A bubbling, sickly sort of excitement washes over him. Spock. Three weeks, three weeks and they’ve finally found him. Jim is determined that this is the last time anyone will hurt Spock. He cannot allow it to happen again, the cost of his friend is too great. He’ll cherish him, support him, care for him, in whatever way possible, and _no one will ever take him away again._

An anticipatory smile ghosts over his lips. He remembers their unfortunate trip to Vulcan, and the joy Spock had shown upon discovering him alive, and he hopes softly that he might be subject to another of those beautiful, precious smiles, here and now. _This is it, you’re coming home, Spock, and I’ll never let you be parted from me again._

The door opening once more brokers a silence over the gathered group, and Jim’s heart gives a worryingly hard thump.

* * *

Spock struggles to suppress his reaction at the appearance of two Tallusions at the door of his cell. Their open hatred of his telepathy is hard to endure, even after three solid weeks of it. Especially after three solid weeks of it. Spock has known discrimination before, but for these people to use his very nature against him, to twist his species’ tool of connection and communication in order to warp his psyche is more torturous than any barbed remarks or blatant disrespect he has received from others.

Most distressing of all is his steadily slackening grasp on reality. He is finding it more and more difficult to discern between their illusions and his memories. His keen sense of time has been shattered, and he can no longer deny the futility of his meditation sessions. These beings have taken his Vulcan mind - something that has always been such a source of pride in the face of his ostracization - and used it to conjure images and sensations of violence and rage against those he has long since considered friends and allies.

The confusion is its own kind of torture. Are these things real? He cannot recall. Did he really beat the feisty and melodious Lieutenant Uhura until she was covered in blood, and was the fear in her eyes that he saw so vividly real? Or Helmsman Sulu, had he truly garrotted the ever-friendly man with a vine on an away mission to some far off planet - until he had gasped his last breath? Had he caved jolly Engineer Scott’s skull in, killing him instantly, but continued to beat him with his own tools anyway? And what of Ensign Chekov? The young man had impressed Spock greatly over his time aboard the _Enterprise_ , and it was no lie to say that the Science Officer had taken him under his wing. So how could this memory of smothering the young man as he slept be real?

Doctor McCoy. The memory makes the backs of his eyes itch, like he wants to scratch the images away. Flashes of sickbay. Luminous, clinical lights. Their usual irritable camaraderie twisted into something ugly and raging. A blind swing, a blow, a crack, a cry. Cool metal between his fingers, a horrifying splatter of blood. Shouting, sobbing, his friend begging for the pain to stop. Feigning mercy, and then delivering a final agonising attack designed to bring a slow death.

And Jim. Jim. His captain, his friend, his _t’hy’la_. His skin flushed an enticing pink, soft hair ruffled, that beautiful face transformed at first in pleasure, before morphing into agony, into desperation, into pleading. “No, Spock, please, ah, please, I don’t want this, no more, please, stop, _stop!_ ” Tearing through that golden mind, breaking down its feeble defences and basking in the turmoil he was reeking.

No. He could never perpetrate such vile acts against his crewmates. But _did he?_ Did he do it? Are these monstrous things truly his memories?

The aliens say nothing, but they are scared - a blind man could see it. They are less rough when handling his bindings, and their glances at his face are nervous and fleeting. Perhaps he has surprised them; maybe their other victims succumbed with more ease.

More of those bleak hallways. How he has longed for the bash, clatter and hum of the _Enterprise_. But, today, they do not track the same path they have for so long. Instead they turn into a corridor with stairs ascending upwards into a comparatively blinding light. Spock’s mind flashes on the Terran fiction of a stairway to Heaven. Still, the aliens are silent. Spock has become accustomed to the disconcerting quiet. He, himself, has not spoken since the first few days of his entrapment.

The drugs he has evidently been dosed with through the little food he’s eaten make his muscles heavy and his impulses sluggish. On top of that, the damage they have inflicted upon his sensitive hands has left him in a daze of bare responsiveness. Spock gingerly presses the pads of his fingers together, subtly trying to check on the state of his nerves and psionically receptive skin. The spike of pain this causes distracts him enough that he stumbles over the next step, and is astonished when his escorts reach out to steady him. They still avoid looking at him, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is the first morsel of kindness he has been shown by these people.

Warnings flash through Spock’s mind, an alertness he hasn’t known in days suddenly pumping through his body. What could be the explanation for their sudden change in attitude towards him? Spock has been an officer of Starfleet for almost two decades; the only time he has ever seen this kind of turnaround is the strange tendency of all sentient beings to show tenderness before delivering the final blow of death.

Regret is not logical; and yet it is exactly what Spock feels.

* * *

Jim’s heart hammers the inside of his ribcage as the group steps out. Bones comes to stand by his side and reaches a hand out to squeeze his arm, conveying their shared anticipation. The two Tallusions appear ahead of him, but Jim glimpses that ever familiar cap of black hair behind them. A semblance of relief - at least Spock is able to move on his own. That’s a start.

The unfamiliar aliens part from each other, revealing Spock in his whole. The captain has to fight not to cry out at the sight of him. His first officer is as stern and immovable as ever, his character seemingly undiminished by his three week capture. But there are differences. Chiefly the deep bruises littered over his neck and face; a sickliness to his usually olive skin; a sharp wariness in his eyes; the marred state of his hands, curled against his stomach as if in need of protection.

“Spock!” Simple joy overtakes his protective anger for the moment, spilling helplessly into his expression. His eyes are hungry for the sight of his best friend, accompanied by a heavy weight in his gut like a magnet demanding that he close the distance between them right _now_. He steps towards the Vulcan, raising his hands thoughtlessly in a bid to touch him.

Spock steps neatly backwards, and Jim’s stomach drops into his boots. “Spock…”

Only now does he realise that Spock’s expression has not changed. There is no glimmer of warmth in his eyes, no quirk of his lips, no visible relief in his posture. He reaches out to his friend, and once again Spock recoils. This time the Vulcan’s heel hits the steps, and Jim catches a flash of fear in his First’s eyes, like a cornered animal facing a hunter.

That rush of protective rage comes crashing back, welling up in a hot gush from his gut. He turns to Tyreel, making an imposing figure despite the alien’s height advantage. “What have you done to him?”

The councillor almost seems to be sweating under the captain’s scrutiny, and he exchanges panicked glances with his colleagues. Kirk steps further towards him, and Tyreel almost yelps, “Please, we thought-”

“I don’t care what you thought - I want to know what you did to him!” Kirk’s voice is raised to a point beyond shouting, and any professional decorum has abandoned him. McCoy steps forward to restrain him again, his gaze re-scanning Spock over the captain’s shoulder. The Vulcan is scarily blank, and McCoy knows that this is what emotionless really looks like. Silent, observing, tense. Clearly Spock is not put at ease by their presence. Dread drips through the doctor’s bones as to what this might mean. Spock might simply be in shock; or it could be a case of trauma-induced amnesia; or some kind of Vulcan defence. No matter its cause, it isn’t exactly a good sign.

“Look why don’t you just tell us?” Bones bites at the aliens, finally losing his own temper. “I ain’t exactly itchin’ to stop him from beating yer heads in.”

* * *

Spock watches the hallucinations as the Tallusions begin to stumble their way through an explanation. They are more complex than any he has encountered so far. He supposes this little show is a last ditch effort to learn something from him before his execution. Whatever it is they have been trying to learn all this time.

Spock lets his breath escape in what would be considered a sigh in a human; he has had enough of his friends’ likenesses being used against him, is sick of his fond visages of them being desecrated. How can he know, when his death finally comes to pass, that his memories of them have gone unaltered? He hopes, anyway, that in his final moments he will be able to picture them with clarity.

This Jim Kirk and this Doctor McCoy are fascinatingly realistic. The image of his captain practically growls as the Tallusions explain their use of illusions, and Spock marvels at their persistence. Explaining illusions to an illusion is quite the dedication to their cause, after all. He also wonders what they believe this charade will do - surely, after all this time, they have realised that he is not willing to talk, no matter the images they show him?

“Enough.” The image of Jim Kirk snaps, in a tone that Spock notes is an impressive imitation of the real Kirk’s own authoritative bark. The mirages turn back towards him, and his heart gives a frightening leap. It seems he has still not learnt his lesson. Even now, their familiarity is his downfall, and he struggles to remind himself that they are not real.

“Spock.” The tone of ‘Jim’ is firm but undemanding. Spock’s eyes snap to hold his gaze, a challenge, a sudden unVulcanly burst of anger and the thought of _how dare you imitate him_. The captain does not waver. Instead he closes his eyes and tilts his head forward in silent offering. “Let me show you. It’s me, Spock. You’re always welcome in my mind, you know that.”

Spock tempers a flicker of hope at this display of trust and offer of connection. He does not know if he could bear the disappointment of finding sweeping blankness behind the soulful eyes of his friend. All the same, he raises his hand, fingers spread in the meld position. What is a little disappointment in the face of his death?

Before he even touches the human, sparks seem to leap between his fingers and Jim’s skin, and their minds slide together without coercion. Instantly Spock is bombarded by Jim’s _relief/affection/protectiveness_. Beyond that, a familiar mind reaches out to his in purposeful communication. _Spock, oh God, Spock, it’s you, it’s really you, I found you, I’m so sorry, forgive me, my friend, I’m here, I’ve found you, you’re safe, Spock-_

The meld snaps beneath the weight of Spock’s surprise, throwing them less-than-gently back into the physical world. The Vulcan finds himself gasping as though he has been held underwater, pitching forward from a sudden spell of dizziness. Jim reaches out to support him as he folds over, his knees collapsing beneath him.

“Spock! Spock, what is it?” Jim pleads, lowering him to the ground as more of his emotions burst onto Spock’s consciousness like wayward embers from a fire. _Terror, anger, grief, regret, helplessness._

The doctor abandons his argument with the Tallusions to tend to them, his own errant emotions mingling with the captain’s. _Wariness, relief, rage, fear, desperation_. Every ounce of McCoy’s attention is laser-focused on the Vulcan as his medical scanner whirs. Jim tightens his embrace of his First Officer, pressing himself close to the beloved man as he begins to shake and curl in on himself. One of Spock’s hands travels upwards to fist into the collar of Jim’s uniform, pressing his cheek against the human’s chest. The captain indulges in his instincts for a moment and nuzzles into Spock’s hair, bathing in his familiarity.

“Bones?” He inquires after a tense moment, turning slightly to face him more fully. Spock groans throatily at this adjustment, and Jim tightens his grip, securing that Vulcanly warmth to his chest. His mind drifts to his earlier metaphor of flames and furnaces; the fire is low now, but he hopes to kindle it sufficiently to coax it back to its usual roaring splendour. And Jim doesn’t care in the slightest if he gets burned in the process.

The doctor shakes his head, that same disturbed concentration focused on his readouts. “We need to get him back to the ship, Jim. His psionic distress is pretty severe.”

The captain holds his friends determined gaze for a moment, searching for a sliver of reassurance, before nodding tersely. “Valdez.”

The older of the ensigns trots closer, wary of bursting the intimate bubble his three superior officers have wrapped themselves in. “Yes, sir?”

“Five to beam up, these coordinates. Tell Mr. Scott that we have the Commander, and have him alert sickbay to prep for our arrival.” The orders are succinct, orderly and sensical as always, but Valdez notes that the captain’s eyes do not leave the Commander’s face for even a second. His heart aches for his command team. Anyone with any sense aboard the Enterprise knows how close the two are, and how deserving they are of happiness. He can’t imagine what Captain Kirk must be feeling right now. He flips open his communicator, “Yes, sir.”

Jim does not feel like a captain at this precise moment - he feels like a lovesick teenager. He knows that perhaps it is unprofessional and against regulations to simply kneel here and cradle his second in command to him, but his very soul cries out at the idea of doing anything else, so he stays, decorum be damned. He squeezes Spock gently and murmurs into his hair, “We’re taking you home, Spock.”

* * *

The first thing Spock registers is the clinical smell of sickbay, but his mind shies away from it. He cannot count the recent mornings he has awoken to this smell, only to open his eyes and find any hint of the beloved Enterprise gone, a desperate fantasy in the midst of his madness. He will not fall victim to his own wishful thinking again.

But then a voice. “Nurse, comm the captain, I think he might be coming out of it.”

 _That_ is not wishful thinking. Spock allows his consciousness to roll back towards the waking world, straining to hear more of that gruff voice. He is almost shocked when a hand rests briefly on his shoulder, and then he hears the gentle clicking of an instrument being adjusted above his head. The instinct to open his eyes is impossible to ignore, and he blinks into the dimness that is sickbay during the evening cycle.

“Well damn if I’m not actually happy to see you, Spock.” Leonard McCoy is lent over his bed, a welcoming grin lighting up his face. A wave of relief washes over Spock, so powerful that the Vulcan is frankly embarrassed by the emotional response, but there is no denying the reality of Leonard’s hand on his shoulder, or the softly thrumming essence of his mind behind their contact. Despite their bickering, Dr McCoy is the person he trusts most highly after the captain, and it is _good_ to see him.

“Doctor.” His voice rasps uncomfortably past his disused throat muscles. Spock is unnerved to hear his inner warmth reflected in his inflection. The doctor’s smile twitches into a smirk, and he gives his shoulder one last empathetic pat before moving to pick up a hypospray; the familiar visage of him wielding the medical equipment would have had Spock laughing with glee if he were human.

Depressing the spray into his neck in an uncharacteristically gentle motion, McCoy cocks his head to look at the biomonitor. “How are you feeling, Spock?”

Spock’s throat strains again, but he is content to weather the pain in order to converse with the doctor. “I believe I am adequate, Leonard.”

  
The doctor’s smirk melts back into a fond grin, but Spock is distracted by his fingers twitching in a poor imitation of a muscle flex. McCoy gestures, his need to care for his patient sliding in alongside his affection for his friend. “May I?”

Spock looks at him for a long moment, considering his adverse reaction to his mental contact with the captain. He has visited McCoy’s mind in the past, and it is not entirely unfamiliar to him, but his shields and emotions are delicate now, and he does not wish to intrude on the doctor’s thoughts. But McCoy’s expression is patient and trusting, the face of a man who understands what he is offering. The Vulcan gives a brief nod, pointedly deflecting his gaze to the ceiling.

Leonard’s grip is gentle as he lifts the appendage from the bed, but all the same his thoughts rush forward into _bastards_ and _how dare they_ and _weeks of recovery_ and _this damn greenblooded-_ and _never thought I’d be so relieved in my damn life to see him._ And underneath each thought is a slightly battering stream of _protect/heal/defend/friend/brother._

“Doctor.” Spock’s voice shakes, and he is astonished when a tear falls from his eye. He adjusts slightly to look upon his friend again. “I assure you I am quite whole.”

The doctor seems equally amazed - and somewhat fearful - of the strength of his reaction, but then shakes his head with a somewhat exasperated air, laying Spock’s hand back down with that same gentleness. “Let’s make sure you stay that way, eh, Mr. Spock?”

The door to sickbay whooshes open and Jim rushes in with a harried expression. The sight of Spock awake evokes such warmth in his gaze that it is like a blanket being draped over Spock’s shoulders. His desperate features relax and his approach is meandering and inevitable, like a planet being pulled by its sun. McCoy turns away to consult his instruments, allowing his friends a private moment to just _look_ at one another.

“It’s a relief to have you back, Mr. Spock.” Jim says eventually in a dulcet undertone, bracing himself with a hand on Spock’s pillow to lean just that little bit closer. His eyes are still pulling in the sight of the Vulcan, like air being sucked into a half drowned man’s lungs. Three weeks of grief dull in significance when compared to this moment.

“Indeed, Captain, I am most gratified to be back aboard the _Enterprise_ where I belong.” Spock is visibly relaxed, his shoulders sinking back into the bedding. He feels like a coil finally returning to its rightful shape after being stretched too far. The usually-dreaded noises of sickbay are as welcome as a lullaby and, with his two closest companions close at hand, Spock drifts halfway back into the cradle of sleep.

“Yes, Mr. Spock.” Jim’s reply is gentle and distracted, his eyes roving over the plains of Spock’s face with an adoring curl of his lips. “Where you belong.”

They drift together for a moment in the bliss of reunion, until Spock’s need for answers pushes him to quietly inquire, “For how long was I incarcerated on Tallus?”

McCoy turns back to them with concerned surprise splashed across his face, breaking his friends’ eye lock. “You mean you don’t remember?”

Spock’s hand curls just a fraction more tightly into the sheets, and he averts his eyes to his lap in shame of the unVulcanly withdrawal from reality he has undergone. “My time sense has been somewhat compromised.”

Jim and Bones share a glance at this particular nugget of information. They know, of course, that Spock’s experience with the Tallusions has been unpleasant, to say the least, but his time sense has always been impeccable and to hear that it has been disturbed is greatly unsettling. McCoy inclines his head subtly, and Jim recognises the signal as a go-ahead for him to tell Spock the answer.

“Three weeks, Spock.” The captain supplies softly, his roaming eyes taking on a more focused edge as he monitors his friend’s reaction. For a moment Spock hardly seems to react at all, but his companions catch a twitch in his brow and the slight down curve of his lips, and Jim is well-versed enough in his friend’s body language to understand that Spock is struggling to comprehend the information he has been given.

Eventually he looks up at them, his gaze flickering from one to the other with puzzlement. “And you have been searching for me the entire duration?”

McCoy actually splutters indignantly, out of surprise or offence, none of them know for certain. He looks half like he wants to smack his patient round the back of the head. Jim almost believes he will. “Of course we have!”

Spock answers his incredulity with a bemused look that Jim absolutely delights in seeing. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of cataloguing Spock’s every expression. For a moment he is pulled back into a haze of joy and contentment at having his First Officer back. How he has missed this efficacious man.

Spock goes on in the same manner, looking to his captain. “Why has Starfleet allowed their flagship to deviate from her schedule for the sake of searching for one officer?”

McCoy laughs, “Have you met our captain, Mr. Spock? He could no more leave you behind than he could his own heart.”

Jim’s face warms at Bones’ hyperbole, feeling again the phantom ache that has plagued his chest the past few weeks. He glances at Spock, and is struck completely dumb to find that the Vulcan’s high cheeks have turned a pretty green. The tap dance of his heart urges him to lean against the bed and say with a soft, slow smile, “I couldn’t very well abandon my favourite Vulcan, now could I, Mr. Spock?”

He watches in delight as the green deepens, and he wants nothing more than to press his lips to it. His First meets his eyes with a gleam of mischief and retorts with no betrayal of his true thoughts, “You do not know many Vulcans, Captain.”

Jim pretends to consider this for a moment. “I don’t need to know them all to know that I’ve met the best, Mr. Spock.”

McCoy huffs as if to remind them that he’s still there. When they turn their attention to him, he says, with no little amusement, “Not to break up the love fest-” Jim and Spock decidedly do not look at each other “-but what happened, Spock?”

The captain levels a reproachful look at the doctor. “Bones-”

“Captain, it is alright.” Spock reassures, his eyes trained on his hands, his brow scrunched in thought. He takes an almost imperceptible breath. “I am uncertain as to how I arrived on Tallus. My last memory previous to waking there is of the hangar deck, although I also do not recall why I was there.”

McCoy hums thoughtfully. “Sounds like you’re just as much in the dark about that as us.”

Spock inclines his head. “Indeed, doctor.”

“And...on the planet?” McCoy ventures carefully. Jim squashes the urge to stop him again, and ignores the itch in his palms to take his First Officer’s hand. “Can you tell us what happened there, Spock?”

The question settles between them like a bad smell, but something in Spock’s expression stops Kirk from backpedaling over McCoy’s gentle probing. Tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow, a hard gleam in his eyes. Jim knows that Spock needs to speak of this, to release the emotional tension of it before it tears him apart from the inside out.

The Vulcan turns his palms upwards thoughtfully, as though his memories are stored there. Eventually, he says, “The Tallusions do not seem to possess telepathic abilities of any calibre, or none that I could sense or distinguish. Nevertheless, they somehow used my own telepathic abilities to create elaborate images of individuals they perceived to be most important to me, and alluded me into believing I had injured or even killed them in order to destroy my emotional wellbeing.”

“Spock…” Jim whispers, his insides twisting as his imagination reels, conjuring images of his gentle, peaceful First being manipulated into doing harm, and to them closest to him no less.  
Spock ignores his captain’s emotionality for the moment and attempts to move his hands, managing to elicit a twinge of motion from his muscles. “After approximately three point seven two days they seemed to realise that my hands were natural conduits for psionic energy, and damaged the nerves so as to dampen my abilities.” Spock pauses, and when he speaks again it is with complete, heartbreaking bewilderment. “They seemed quite fearful of me.”

Jim touches a hand to his shoulder, shaking just slightly. He leans forward in an attempt to catch the Vulcan’s eye and his voice is low and vehement. “Spock, you weren’t at fault. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Spock meets his gaze for just a moment, and inclines his head in acquiescence. “Indeed, Captain.” To the unfamiliar eye, his expression would be unaffected and cold, but Jim can see the disturbance going on beneath the surface as though it were inside his own head.

A part of Jim aches to hold him, to pour all his love and affection and admiration into the air between them. He wants to curse the Tallusions and banish any doubts they may have sewn from Spock’s mind. He wishes to profess every aching thought he has had in his absence, to illustrate how purely and honestly and truly he sees this incredible man.

Instead he squeezes his friend’s shoulder with gentle fingers and says no more.

* * *

It is almost a week later that Spock is released from sickbay. The call comes between ambassadorial calls from the Admiralty, in which Jim is reprimanded a fair deal less than he was expecting, and well-wishings for Mr. Spock, which the crew naturally assumes the captain is the best messenger for, and impassioned debates about Tallus on the bridge, where the Alpha crew finally releases their tensions through their resolute defences of their science officer.

Bones’ voice is most welcome as he informs Jim over the intercom that Spock has returned to his quarters, the usually gruff doctor sounding downright chipper at the news. Jim’s insides squirm with glee at the idea of those abandoned quarters where he wept once again being filled with that familiar presence.

He attempts valiantly to concentrate on his work for the remainder of the shift, but after fifteen minutes of him staring at the same refuelling report, Sulu takes pity on him. Turning from the console, the pilot says, “Captain, it’s been a long week. I’m sure we can handle things up here if you’d like to get some, um, _rest_.”

Kirk looks up from the report, blinking away his daydreaming. He glances at the other members of the crew, who are all peering at him expectantly. Something in his head clicks and he catches on to Sulu’s tone, and an excitable grin slips onto his face. He nods gratefully and passes the PADD off to a yeoman.

“A fantastic idea, Mr. Sulu. As ever, I leave the ship in your capable hands.” He stands from the captain’s chair with an air of giddy anticipation.

“Aye, sir.”

He makes his way to the turbolift, but pauses and turns to give his watchful crew one last satisfied nod.

* * *

When he reaches his First Officer’s cabin, his heart is hammering in his chest with pure happiness. The knowledge that Spock is on the other side of the door stirs softness and warmth within his core, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing with utter delight as he presses the buzzer. The door slides to admit him almost instantly.

Jim breathes a sigh of relief as the warmth of Spock’s quarters washes over him, the temperature once again adjusted to its Vulcan inhabitant. This peak of relief is like a drug after the long stretch of separation from his best friend. His constant visits to sickbay this past week have painstakingly threaded the frayed edges of his soul back together. The relief of the weight from his mind is still fresh, and he feels oddly light and clumsy, like he has finally shedded a particularly heavy cloak.

Incense floats through the open doorway, enticing him, pulling at his centre and promising to fix every piece of him that has shattered in this ordeal. The warmth, smell, _idea_ of Spock brings butterflies to his stomach, and he licks instinctively at his lips, feeling blown wide open by the emotions that flow freely from him.

He knows that whatever happens when he walks through this door will likely set the stage for the rest of their existence together, whether that be in cherished friendship or amorous embrace, and for a moment he wonders if only having a part of Spock’s companionship would hurt more than losing him altogether, but that thought is quickly squashed by the memory of the twisting, turning, endless nights that accompanied the Vulcan’s absence from his life.

Even if he must let go of the base desires that his lean, beautiful friends engenders in him, he will not lose Spock. He will enslave himself to a life of wistful yearning and painful hope before he allows this precious friendship to slip through his hands.

He steps through the door.

“Captain.” The voice is like the sweetest honey enveloping his skin, and he smiles helplessly, that rising, bursting affection wrapping around his lungs. Yes, he thinks, he’s here, my best friend, my loyal first, I won’t let him go, no matter the sacrifice to myself.

“Mr. Spock.” His own voice is dripping with affection, and he indulges himself in a seemingly endless moment of drinking in the sight of his First in his velvety black robes, alive, cleanly groomed, eyes enquiring, right here.

“Does something trouble you, Captain?” The question is honest and earnest, but as Jim looks at Spock he sees a slight lilt in his stance - invisible to anyone else, but like a red alert to Jim - informing him of his friend’s continued exhaustion.

He shakes his head. “No, Spock, not anymore.” _Not now that you’re here._ He chuckles, “Come on, Spock, you’re making me tired just looking at you - let’s sit down.”

Spock complies, folding himself onto the sofa with typical neatness. Jim takes the liberty of sitting next to him, closer, he knows, than Spock would allow anyone else to come. The proximity of his friend is a desperately needed balm to soothe the fear and turmoil still churning underneath the warmth in his chest.

Spock seems to sense this, and Jim’s heart trembles with how well his Vulcan can read him, and reaches out to lay a firm hand on his arm. The gesture, from his usually touch-averse friend, strikes electricity over his skin. They are not in direct contact, Jim’s sleeve blocking any telepathic wavelengths, but when Spock speaks it is a statement of fact. “You are still disturbed by what transpired.”

Another time, maybe, Jim would have laughed and brushed the worry away, trying to upkeep his ironclad image of a devil-may-care attitude. But here, now, he simply nods, a watery smile tugging at his mouth. He speaks the truth, unsettled to hear his voice trembling. “I missed you.”

In Spock’s eyes, there is a softness, a spark of the hidden compassion that first compelled him to the captain. Those long fingers move slightly in a soothing motion. “Yes, Jim, as I did thee.”

Jim tips his head down to look at the hand on his forearm, smitten at the formal phrasing of the sentiment. There is silence between them for a moment, and Jim wrestles with the tumultuous avalanche of his emotions. Grief and sorrow and relief and love pulse through him, and he shakes his head, refusing to allow his tears to fall. He came here to offer solace to Spock, not for Spock to comfort him.

“Jim…”

“No, Spock, I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to upset you.” He tries to smile, but it is small and pathetic - his lips still tremble, and tears still course down his face.

“You seem a great deal more upset than I, Jim.” Spock says with worry. And maybe it doesn’t matter why he came. Maybe all that matters is that they are here, together, with no space between them.

Jim dares to take Spock’s hand into his own. The Vulcan inhales sharply but holds on just as strongly. The damage to his friend’s hands is obvious beneath his palm, and Jim gently tugs Spock’s arm to inspect the skin more closely. Fine tremors can still be seen throughout his ligaments, the skin is an oddly purpled colour, and occasionally his fingers will twitch convulsively. He hums a low growl of disapproval.

“Doctor McCoy assures me the damage, in actuality, is not as severe as it appears.” Spock says, casually enough. Jim can’t help but think of himself as a prowling predator looking to avenge his wounded mate, and his friend’s placations sound like a belittlement of all that he suffered on that god forsaken planet.

“Yes, he explained that to me, too. It’s a bit harder to believe now that I can see it up close.” There is something of a bite to his tone, but when he glances up at Spock he knows that the Vulcan is aware his ire is not aimed at him.

“I am whole and recovering, Jim. I am home. You need not worry about my wellbeing.” Spock’s fingers sweep over his knuckles, distracting him from his anger, and warmth jockeys for position in his chest alongside his turmoil.

His own voice is softened by the calmness of Spock’s words, and he curls his fingers slightly to stroke into Spock’s palm. “I can’t help it - your wellbeing might as well as be my own at this point. I couldn’t bear not knowing what had become of you.”

Another moment of silence as Jim loses his concentration in a whirl of freshly stinging memories. He fights the urge to press his lips to Spock’s knuckles by saying, “How are you managing with McCoy’s potions?”

Spock concedes to Jim’s subject change and nods, slipping his hand from his captain’s as he stands and travels to his desk to ghost a hand over the array of bottles and hyposprays gathered there. “Quite well. The good doctor assures me that the damage may be fully reversed, given time. He has supplied me with a veritable arsenal of pharmaceuticals to aid in my recovery.” - Here he pauses to pick out a particular bottle and turns back to Jim - “Although I admit that I am finding it difficult to utilise the neural regeneration cream given my current lack of fine motor control.”

Jim reaches out to take the bottle from him as Spock settles back down beside him. He scrutinises the label for a moment before popping the cap off and taking a curious sniff; the cream has a pleasantly clean smell, somewhat clinical, but pure and reassuring. He looks up at Spock through his eyelashes before coming to a decision and dipping his fingers into the substance. He sits up straighter and offers his hand out for Spock’s own silently. Spock hesitates, “Jim, please do not think you must-”

“Please, Spock,” Kirk interrupts softly, smiling just-so at his friend. “I want to actually do something to help you.”

Spock studies his hand for only a moment more before placing his own back into it. That beautiful green tinge spreads over his cheeks and up his ears again, and Jim’s stomach flutters. Spock refuses to look him in the eye, but replies, “Your presence is already help enough, Jim.”

It’s the captain’s turn to blush now, and he distracts himself from the heady delight of Spock’s words by turning back to his work, touching his index and middle fingers to the middle of Spock’s palm. There is a slight hitch in the Vulcan’s breath, but he offers no rebuffal, so Jim begins to spread the cream meticulously across the skin.

They are quiet for the next few minutes as Spock watches with vested interest as Jim methodically covers every part of his hand and wrist, only pausing to collect more cream and then to switch to Spock’s other hand. After a while it becomes obvious to them both that the task is complete, but neither mentions it as Jim skims light fingers over Spock’s warm skin, eventually drifting up so that their fingers are pressed together in the _ozh'esta_.

“My time on Tallus was most unpleasant.” Spock intones, but when Jim looks at him the Vulcan’s gaze stays locked on their hands. “But what I found most unpleasant of all was the separation from my home and my work, and the people who have come to mean a great deal to me. I found it difficult to be away from you, especially, Captain.”

A light wash of emotion reaches Jim, and he closes his eyes for a moment to concentrate on it. _Loneliness, fear, shame, longing_. It is illogical, Jim knows, but true all the same, that he wishes to physically tie himself to his First Officer in order to ensure that they are never parted again, so that Spock will never have to experience uncertainty without his captain there to help him.

“I thought I’d lost you, Spock.” The words clench down on Jim’s stomach, pulling all the desperation and despair back to the surface. He raises his other hand to cup the Vulcan’s cheek, and watches in awe as Spock leans into it. “If I could, I’d choose never to be parted from you ever again, my friend.”

A thrill sings through him when Spock drifts closer to press his lips to the corner of his mouth. Suffused with warmth, Jim turns his head to capture the Vulcan’s lips fully. Their fingers curl together until their palms are pressed tightly to one another. Jim moans as Spock leans into his space, and melts into his embrace as Spock’s arms slip around his back. His own hands slide up his friend’s chest and around his neck to stroke at the short hairs at the base of his skull.

They part, panting, and Jim rests his forehead against Spock’s. The captain chuckles breathlessly into their shared space, “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”

“As have I, _ashayam_.” Spock’s voice is molten with desire, and Jim’s eyes flutter closed at the heat it invokes in him. He holds Spock tighter, pulls him closer, wanting to mould them together. Spock follows his lead, grasping him firmly by the arms and thoroughly obliterating the limits of personal space he has long acquainted with his friend.

The need to share affection is unrelenting, and Jim bestows Spock with soft, chaste kisses. Promising, with every press of his lips, to shield him from any further threats with the ferocity of a Vulcan mate, and to cherish him with all the diligence of a human lover. Between kisses, he vows, “Nobody...is ever...going to...hurt you...again…”

Spock hums somewhat doubtfully. Cupping the back of Jim’s neck to scrape light fingers through his hair, he says, “While I appreciate the sentiment, Captain, I believe my position aboard this vessel elicits some danger to my person.”

Jim emits what could almost be classified as a growl, nuzzling from Spock’s jawline to his neck, turning his soft kisses into gentle nips. “ _No_.” He says, continuing to press forward into his friend’s space, almost squirming to get closer to him. His voice wobbles, “No, you’re safe with me. You’re here with me.”

Spock registers a wetness at his collar, and attempts to pull back in alarm to look his captain in the face. Jim resists, grasping the lip of his robe to prevent their separation. A small, desperate noise is muffled into his skin, and Spock enfolds Jim into his arms again, crushing his cheek into his hair and stroking a steadying hand down his broad back. “I am here, _t’hy’la_ , you need not weep my absence.”

Nevertheless, this is exactly what Jim does. “They _took_ you. We couldn’t even- We didn’t know where to start looking. I worried we’d never get you back.”

“If it is within my power, I shall always return to you, Captain.” Jim’s hand shifts at Spock’s words, travelling back up his neck to stroke at his cheek, and he finally allows for some space between them to look Spock in the eye. The Vulcan speaks again, voice low. “You shall never lose me, _ashal-veh_ \- our souls are one.”

Jim surges forwards with a sob, crashing their lips together almost painfully. Spock adjusts accordingly, recognising that Jim will only work himself into a frenzy if he continues, and strokes his chest to soothe his urgency, gentling the kiss from its passionate fervour. Jim moans before breaking suddenly from him, gasping.

“Spock, I-“ He pauses, flushing red and avoiding his friend’s eye. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to demand so much from you - it’s just so incredible to have you here with me.”

Spock curls his fingers under Jim’s chin, guiding him back to meet his gaze. “Be assured, Jim, what you demand I am all too willing to give.”

A smile graces Jim’s face, then, slowly and inevitably, like the sun rising. He leans up to leave an adoring kiss on Spock’s forehead. “Thank you, my love. And you know that the reverse is true; anything that is mine is yours.”

Spock allows a smile, small but radiating contentment. Jim’s chest pulses with warmth, and he leans forward to kiss Spock’s now drooping eyelids. “You’re still recovering, Spock. What do you say, will you come to bed with me?”

“ _Jim…_ ” Spock flushes green, and Jim’s stomach flutters to see his confident friend reacting so shyly. He never knew it was possible to adore someone like this. His head has always been turned by a fine body and distinctive features, and his interest piqued by fierce intelligence and quick wit, but he has never felt such an all-consuming need to hold and protect and cherish someone like this. He would truly do anything to ensure Spock’s welfare and happiness.

“To sleep, Mr. Spock.” He teases, dropping a kiss to the delicious green of his cheek. He continues in a low undertone. “I believe any further... _activities_...ought to be postponed until you’ve gotten your strength back.”

Spock really seems to be struggling against his fatigue now, but he murmurs, “My apologies, Jim.”

Jim tuts and shakes his head fondly, raising them both from the sofa and moving towards the bed chamber. “No apologies, Spock. I just want you to be well again. There’s plenty of time for all that.”

Spock allows Jim to manoeuvre him onto the bed, and raises his arms sleepily as Jim carefully strips him from his outer layers. Once he is clad in only in his undershirt and briefs, the captain helps him swing his legs up and lowers his head onto the pillows. Spock touches a finger to his cheek, stopping Jim mid-movement, and peers at him through bleary eyes. “Forever, if you will have me, _t’hy’la_.”

Jim struggles around the sudden lump in his throat. He grasps his hand, guiding it to his lips, and kisses the fingertip. “Yes,” He whispers. “Yes, Spock, of course. Forever.”

He straightens back up to remove his own clothing, and orders the lights down as he climbs in beside Spock. They shift together for a moment, finally settling with Spock’s head cushioned on Jim’s chest, and the captain’s arms locked tight around him. Feeling the Vulcan’s contentment and the vestiges of sleep creeping into his taxed telepathic mind, Jim presses a kiss to his First’s temple. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Jim swears he can feel the curl of lips against his neck as Spock’s thumb caresses his collarbone in a drowsy reply. For a moment, Jim allows himself to imagine their future, filled with nights like this one and even more besides, and drifts into sleep knowing that his friend, his love, his _t’hy’la_ , is exactly where he should be.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it! I hope you enjoyed, I hope it lived up to expectations, and feedback would be very much appreciated. Thanks so much for taking the time to read this fic - it means a lot!


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